The Love Affair
by Lorlie
Summary: On Valentine's Day, Illya makes for an unlikely Cupid and Napoleon chases girsl.


THE LOVE AFFAIR  
  
  
  
  
  
"It' all about love, Illya! It's about romance! It's . . . "  
  
" . . .about thirty-six hours since I had any sleep."  
  
Napoleon Solo paused to check his reflection in the glass window of a darkened computer room. His slight, blond Russian partner came to a halt beside him. Solo straightened his tie smartly, approving the image that met his eye. He was a tall, dark, elegant man in his early thirties with boyish good looks and an easy charm that stood him in good stead with the ladies.  
  
"I slept on the plane," he said, a trifle smugly.  
  
"I know," Illya Kuryakin returned acidly, "I was flying it."  
  
Solo grinned easily and cast his partner a mischievous, slant-wise look. "Oh, so you were." He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Come on, Illya! You're young. You can always sleep later. It's Valentine's Day! Just think of it as a chance to build your stamina."  
  
"My stamina is fine, thank you." Kuryakin's tone brooked no argument.  
  
Solo grinned and stopped preening and they continued down the hall, heading for the reception area. It was late afternoon and the two agents were off duty. They had just returned from a three-week long mission that led them from Greece to Turkey to the Caribbean. It had been a risky and exhausting venture, with more close calls than either cared to contemplate. In the end, however, the forces of good had won out, U.N.C.L.E. had triumphed over their old nemesis, THRUSH, and the two highest-ranking enforcement agents had once again returned with their shields instead of on them.  
  
More importantly, in Napoleon Solo's estimation, they had gotten back in time for Valentine's Day.  
  
"Why don't you just let me ask around?" he tried again as they claimed their coats from the closet by the reception desk. "There must be a girl somewhere in New York who doesn't already have plans tonight."  
  
In fact, most of the women he knew would probably gladly ditch any hapless young man for the opportunity to spend an evening with the enigmatic Russian. Smaller than Solo and more slightly built, Illya Kuryakin nonetheless possessed a perfect physique. His hair was white gold, worn slightly longer than Napoleon's more conservative cut, and his eyes were a deep and penetrating blue. He treated women with a polite disinterest and they fell for him in droves.  
  
It was very annoying for Napoleon Solo. He had come to the conclusion that Illya's attitude towards women was an odd mixture of shyness and cunning. Whereas he, Solo, spent all his spare time and energy pursuing the ladies, all Illya had to do to catch any given female was simply stop running.  
  
The Russian waited until they were out of the building to answer.  
  
"Thank you, Napoleon, but I really am tired. I'm just going to have supper somewhere and go home to bed."  
  
Solo shook his head in disgust. "Illya, my boy, I don't know what I'm going to do with you. Someday, I'll tell you, someday you're going to be a lonely old man, sitting by yourself in the corner of some dismal bar with nothing but a bottle of vodka to keep you warm. And you're going to say to yourself, why didn't I listen to Napoleon? But, by then, it'll be too late."  
  
Kuryakin snorted, unimpressed. "Good vodka can warm you very well."  
  
"But it can never love you the way a woman can love you."  
  
This elicited a low, ironic chuckle. "Honestly, Napoleon! How can you keep talking about love? You see a different woman every night. Where's the romance in that? Which one do you love?"  
  
Solo looked at his partner as if that were the stupidest question he'd ever been asked. "I love whichever one I'm with," he said. "Didn't you ever see Finian's Rainbow?"  
  
They paused on the sidewalk at the spot where their paths diverged. Illya laughed, which was rare, and shook his head. "Very well, Napoleon, whom are you going to love tonight?"  
  
Solo made an odd face and refused to meet Kuryakin's eye.  
  
"Oh, for heaven's sake," the Russian exclaimed. "Do you mean to tell me that you don't have a date either?"  
  
"Of course I have a date," Solo said, affronted. "I . . . er . . . just don't happen to remember who I have a date with. It'll be okay, though," he added hastily. Illya remained silent, but his level stare spoke volumes. "Whoever it is, she's bound to call me, just to make sure I got back into town all right."  
  
Kuryakin's stare continued for an unnerving length of time, then he turned abruptly on his heel and strode away. "Good night, Napoleon," he said distinctly, without turning.  
  
"Good night, Illya," Solo called after him. "Happy Valentine's Day!"  
  
  
  
Illya Kuryakin strolled through his neighborhood in a leisurely manner, with his hands jammed into the deep pockets of his full-length overcoat and his collar turned up against the wind. It was a blustery day, heavily overcast, and night was gathering rapidly. Still, the Russian was used to the cold. He had been far colder than this in his young life, and with no warm clothes and too little to eat. All in all, he appreciated the weather. As tired as he was, he found the brisk walk invigorating, and the gray skies and encroaching darkness reflected his mood, which was somber without being in the least depressed.  
  
Half a block from his apartment building he turned in at a little neighborhood bar and grill. He stopped just inside the door, allowing the warmth to wash over him as he surveyed the interior. It was a mark of his professionalism that even when off-duty he remained on his guard. Everyone here tonight was a regular. He knew them all – knew far more about them than any of them would ever dream. He scanned the room, appreciating the presence of all these normal, ordinary people, and his eye happened to fall on a man named George Morgan, sitting alone in the corner, nursing a bottle of beer.  
  
Illya knew Morgan. He was in his mid-seventies, a common plumber who had made a small fortune in the wholesale appliance business. He was retired now, a widower whose only daughter had died years ago in an auto crash. Normally he was cheerful and outgoing but Illya, observing him unawares, saw a haunting emptiness in the other man's eyes.  
  
Someday you're going to be a lonely old man, sitting by yourself in the corner . . .  
  
Acting on empathy, the Russian crossed the room. "George? How are you? Mind if I join you?"  
  
Morgan saw the Kuryakin and his eyes lit up. "Illya! Sit down, son. I haven't seen you in a while."  
  
"Yes, I've been out of town on business. I just got back this afternoon."  
  
While they sat and talked the waitress came up. As he ordered, Illya studied her out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Julia," he asked gently, "what's the matter?"  
  
She looked up at him, startled. "Oh, nothing," she lied, fluttering the fingers of her left hand dismissively. Her voice was too high and her smile unsteady.  
  
"If nothing's wrong," he countered, "then why have you been crying? And don't tell me you've been cutting onions, because I could smell them if you had."  
  
Her rueful smile, this time, was genuine. "It's really nothing," she said, embarrassed. "It's just that I lost my ring down the drain in the hand sink. It's my own fault. I shouldn't have been wearing it."  
  
"What kind of a ring?" Morgan cut in.  
  
"Opal and sapphire. It's not very valuable. I was just attached to it. It was the last Christmas present my dad gave me before . . ." her voice trailed off and she left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but both men understood.  
  
Morgan reached over and patted her hand. "Maybe we can get it back," he said. "Did you check the trap?"  
  
"The trap?"  
  
"The curvy part of the drainpipe, under the sink. If there hasn't been a lot of water down the drain, there's a good chance your ring is still in the trap." Energized, the former plumber pulled to his feet and headed for the back of the building. "Mike," he called to the manager, "have you got a wrench I can use?"  
  
Julia stared after him, anxious and uncertain. She turned to Illya. "I don't want to be any trouble," she said.  
  
Illya winked at her and shook his head reassuringly. "Let him help you," he told her wisely. "It will make him feel good."  
  
Napoleon Solo, wrapped in an oversized white terry robe, came out of the bathroom toweling his hair dry just in time to scoop up the telephone on the third ring.  
  
"Napoleon?"  
  
The chief enforcement officer grinned at the dulcet tones. "Marcie! You have such a beautiful voice. I can go for days just dreaming about hearing it again."  
  
Marcie Simpson giggled appreciatively. "I just thought I'd better call and make sure you got back into town okay."  
  
Solo grinned to himself and wished he'd thought to tape this call so he could play it back for Illya later.  
  
"I can't imagine anything that would keep me away from you on Valentine's Day, Marcie," he said extravagantly.  
  
She giggled again. She giggled a lot. This was one reason why his partner couldn't stand her. "Do you still want me to meet you at the Top of the World Club, Napoleon?"  
  
"Absolutely! I've been looking forward to it for weeks. What time did we agree to meet again?"  
  
"Silly! Eight o'clock, remember?"  
  
"Of course. I was just making sure you did."  
  
Marcie giggled again, made kissing noises over the phone, and finally signed off. Solo, feeling inordinately smug, hung up the receiver and turned away.  
  
The phone rang.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Napoleon?"  
  
"Victoria!" Solo didn't have to work to keep his voice warm – Victoria was, after all, an extraordinarily beautiful and alluring woman. He did have to fight down the puzzlement, though.  
  
"I just thought I'd better call and make sure you got back into town all right."  
  
"Victoria," he purred, "of course I did."  
  
"Wonderful! I'll see you at seven-thirty, then. Top of the World Club, right?"  
  
"Absolutely," Solo found himself saying. He felt as though his thought processes had shut down.  
  
"All right, Angel, ta-ta until then."  
  
"Ta-ta," Napoleon echoed. He set down the receiver and stared at the phone in dismay.  
  
"Hoo, boy!"  
  
  
  
The Minoan opened as a fashionable hotel in the roaring 20's. By World War II it had degenerated into a filthy tenement house and in the late 1950's it was in danger of being torn down before it was rescued by an urban renewal project. Faithfully restored and transformed into small but up-scale apartments, it stood incongruously beside an ultra-modern basalt and plate-glass fronted office building. The lobby was done in period art deco and the indoor pool was paved with the stylized octopus design so common in Cretan pottery. A brass plaque by the door detailed the career of the architect who built it and documented the number of newly former millionaires who leapt to their death from its rooftop in late October, 1929.  
  
Illya Kuryakin nodded a polite good evening to the doorman and was halfway across the lobby when he was arrested by a soft, warm feminine voice.  
  
"Illyusha, you come home hurt again!"  
  
Unconsciously, the exhausted agent straightened his back. His eyes warmed and his voice gentled as he turned to meet the speaker.  
  
"No," he shook his head reassuringly.  
  
"And am I blind then? I see you are almost staggering. And you favor your left side."  
  
"No," he said again, crossing to her and dropping to one knee beside her chair. A few bruises, a sprained shoulder, a bullet crease that could have been much worse; for the blond agent it was nothing to mention. "I am only very tired," he said. "I have been dealing with Mr. Solo for over three weeks now."  
  
She patted him lightly on the shoulder. "I think you are telling me stories, eh? Ah, well, Illyusha, if you would pretend then so shall I. Will you at least come have tea with me?"  
  
"It would be an honor." He offered her his arm in his most courtly manner. She took it and he stood gracefully, levering her up with him without seeming to lift her at all. Standing, her white head came only to his biceps, though once she would have been nearly as tall as he. She was wearing pink fuzzy slippers and her shuffling steps were painful and slow.  
  
Her name was Sonjia Tupolev and she was seventy-three years old.  
  
Illya Kuryakin matched his pace to hers and walked beside her with the proud bearing of a Russian prince.  
  
They rode up to their floor in the elevator, a delicate-looking gilded birdcage affair. Their apartments were next to one another at the west end of the hall on the seventh floor. He escorted her into her dining room and lowered her gently into a chair at the table. Her second husband had been a shipping magnate and when he died he left Sonjia a comparatively wealthy woman. But, although her apartment was tastefully furnished, it was almost as bare of anything personal as Kuryakin's own.  
  
He had not met the elderly lady until he found himself living next door to her, but she and he had much in common. Both had lost their families and their way of life on the eastern front and both knew what it was to be homeless and cold and hungry in a war zone. And so she treated him like the grandson she had lost in the skies over Leningrad and he treated her like the grandmother he had lost under the bombed-out rubble of Kiev.  
  
Under her direction he set out a plate of cookies and got down the tea set. As he worked he thought about Sonjia. She fretted about him coming home injured, but in his job he was lucky to come home at all. What if the day came when he didn't return? Strangers would come around to clean out his apartment. Would they even acknowledge the inquisitive little old lady next door? Probably not, he decided. He would just be gone from her life and most likely she would never even know why.  
  
Materially, of course, her life wouldn't change. But who would talk to her? Who would listen or care? As far as he knew he was the only one who ever visited her.  
  
He was standing at the sink filling the teakettle when his partner's voice came back to him again.  
  
. . . but then it will be too late.  
  
He turned his head to watch the old lady, smiling to herself as she re-arranged the cookies more artistically.  
  
"It's never too late, Napoleon," he muttered softly.  
  
Very deliberately he removed his right cuff link and dropped it down the drain.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Mario? Napoleon Solo. Listen, do I have a reservation tonight?"  
  
Solo could hear the suppressed amusement in the maitre de's voice. "Yes, sir. In fact, I'm afraid there's been a mix-up. It seems you have two reservations tonight."  
  
"Oh, Lord." The chief enforcement officer didn't bother to hide his dismay. "One at seven-thirty and one at eight?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Okay, listen, I'm going to need two very special tables. I need them to be fairly close together, but not within eyesight or earshot of each other. And neither should be within sight of the door. Can you do that?"  
  
"I'll see what I can do, sir."  
  
"Mario, I'm begging you, my life is in your hands. Please!"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Napoleon hung up and paced furiously around his spacious penthouse. This was a catastrophe. Okay. He could deal with catastrophes. He dealt with catastrophes every day.  
  
How did he deal with catastrophes every day?  
  
Usually, he admitted wryly, he called for backup. He called, specifically, for Illya Kuryakin.  
  
Solo halted suddenly in his pacing as a devious idea began to take shape. A slow smile spread across his face as he considered his plot from every angle. He could still salvage this mess. Hell, he could come out of this looking like a hero.  
  
All he had to do was call for backup.  
  
  
  
Illya met George Morgan in the hall by the elevator. "George, thanks for coming. I really hope I'm not putting you out?"  
  
"No, not at all. Glad I can help."  
  
"This does seem to be the day for lost jewelry, does it not?"  
  
As he conducted Morgan down the hall to Sonjia's door he found he was oddly nervous about this. It had seemed like a good idea at the time – it still did – but people are funny and often unpredictable creatures. Still Sonjia Tupolev and George Morgan were both nice people. They were both the same age and they were obviously both very lonely. That should be enough basis for a friendship at least.  
  
He tapped lightly on the door and then led Morgan inside.  
  
"Sonjia? This is my friend George Morgan, who has been kind enough to come retrieve my cuff link from your plumbing. George, my neighbor, Mrs. Sonjia Tupolev. Sonjia is from Leningrad."  
  
Morgan removed his hat and nodded politely at Sonjia. "A pleasure, ma'am. You have a lovely country."  
  
Illya blinked in surprise at the statement. "Have you been there?"  
  
The old man nodded, amused and yet reticent. "I was a member of the ground crew for an RAF squadron that served on the eastern front, during the war."  
  
"You never told me that."  
  
"I got the impression you didn't care to talk about the war. You were just a kid then, but you must have had a very rough time of it."  
  
The young Russian swallowed hard, finding himself a bit unnerved by the older man's insight. For someone who made a living out of subterfuge, it was a slap in the face to be so accurately read by a casual acquaintance.  
  
"It was an unpleasant time for all of us," he replied a bit lamely.  
  
Sonjia cut across the uncomfortable silence. "Please sit down, Mr. Morgan, and join us for tea. Illya tells me you already rescued a ring tonight?"  
  
Morgan and Sonjia sat across from one another. Illya was looking for a tactful way to retreat and leave them to get acquainted when a familiar warbling song came to his rescue.  
  
"Please excuse me," he told them politely, "but I believe I hear my phone."  
  
"Of course, Illyusha," Sonjia told him. "Just be careful and don't lose your other cuff link while you're gone."  
  
"I won't," he promised with a smile as he slipped out the door.  
  
He wouldn't either, he reflected dryly as he unlocked his own apartment and stepped inside. The cuff link he had dropped down Sonjia's drain was only a harmless tracking device, but the one still on his wrist contained a powerful explosive.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
In the privacy of his own living room he took out his communicator and finally answered.  
  
"Kuryakin."  
  
"I know. What took you so long?"  
  
"I was occupied. If you haven't remembered who you have a date with, it occurs to me that I know." He had remembered the conversation while he was walking home.  
  
"Thank you," Solo replied, a touch irritably. "I've remembered. Listen, this is what you're going to do. First, get dressed. Casual is okay if it's elegant casual. Say black jeans and a turtleneck with a sports coat over it. Then, you're going to stop by a florist and pick up some roses and meet me at the Top of the World Club at eight o'clock sharp. Right?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Napoleon," Illya said, "but you're not my type."  
  
"Very funny," Solo growled. "I go to the trouble to set you up with a perfect dream girl and you stand there making smart remarks. Come on, Boy! Time's a'wasting. Hut! Hut! Hut!"  
  
"Napoleon, I already told you I have plans tonight."  
  
"Plans?" Solo sounded distinctly disgruntled. "You never told me you had plans! You said you were going to go to bed and go to sleep!"  
  
"Right. I plan to go to bed and I plan to go to sleep: ergo, I have plans. I'm sure the young lady – if she is a young lady – will understand. Just admit to her that you failed to consult me first."  
  
There was a long silence. "It's not that simple," Solo said at last, reluctantly.  
  
"Ah."  
  
Illya Kuryakin knew Napoleon Solo better than any man alive. Across town, connected to him by only the radio link, Solo could see the wheels turning behind those shrewd blue eyes.  
  
"Have you, perhaps, over-extended yourself?" The light Russian voice was laced with humor.  
  
Napoleon sighed. "Yes," he admitted reluctantly, "I seem to have made dates with two women on the same night. And in the same restaurant, no less."  
  
"How inconvenient."  
  
"Illya, stop smirking!"  
  
Kuryakin, in his living room, held the pen away from him and looked at it in amusement. "I wasn't smirking," he protested.  
  
"Oh, yes you were! I could hear you."  
  
"Was I? Sorry."  
  
"Never mind that, are you going to help me?"  
  
"I wasn't planning on it, no."  
  
"Illya, please!"  
  
"Who's the girl?"  
  
"Someone very beautiful," Napoleon hedged.  
  
"Does she have a name?"  
  
"It's a surprise."  
  
"Napoleon . . . "  
  
Solo sighed. "Its Marcie Simpson."  
  
"Oh, no!"  
  
"Come on, Partner! It's just one evening. And she really is beautiful."  
  
"Napoleon, it wouldn't work anyway. She's expecting you. Why would she be appeased by seeing me turn up instead? Surely no young woman wants to be the reject."  
  
"But it doesn't have to look like that. I'll just tell her that I could see you two were made for each other, so I decided to be a little sneaky about setting you up. She'll think I'm being sweet and thoughtful. She likes you, Boy!"  
  
"I don't like her."  
  
Solo growled into his transceiver, "work with me, IK!"  
  
"And what happens when it becomes painfully obvious that we two are not made for each other? No, don't answer that. The heartbroken maiden falls into your manly arms for comfort."  
  
"Right," Napoleon agreed shamelessly, "but at a more convenient time."  
  
"No."  
  
"No?"  
  
"Sorry. No."  
  
"Illya! What am I going to do? This is going to ruin my reputation!"  
  
"Remember, Napoleon," the Russian deadpanned, "it's all about love."  
  
"Smart Russian!" Solo growled. "Goodnight then, Mr. Kuryakin."  
  
"Good night, Napoleon. I'd tell you to remember me to Marcie and Mimi, but I think I'd just as soon they'd forget me."  
  
  
  
  
  
Illya closed his communicator with a tired grin, pocketed the slender transceiver and slipped into the hallway. Moving lightly past Sonjia's door, he took the stairs down eight levels to the basement. He already knew where the fuse box was. It was the work of but a moment to find the fuse he wanted and attach a small, time-delay charge. When he was done he returned to his floor via the service elevator, tapped on Sonjia's door, and let himself in.  
  
George and Sonjia were still sitting at the table. From the look on their faces he knew they had been talking about him, but he didn't mind. He had been talked about before, and probably in far less complimentary terms.  
  
"Illyusha," Sonjia said, "is everything all right?"  
  
"That depends on your point of view," he told her. "My friend, Mr. Solo, is in a bind of his own making. It seems he engaged himself to two different young ladies this evening."  
  
The elderly couple laughed.  
  
"Have you met Mr. Solo?" Sonjia asked Morgan. "A charming man if a bit of a rogue. He needn't worry, though," she added to Illya, "women will always have a place in their heart for a rogue."  
  
The dining room light abruptly flickered and went out.  
  
Illya tried the switch. "It must be a fuse. We'll have to call maintenance."  
  
"And there won't be anyone there this late at night," Sonjia sighed.  
  
"That's all right," the agent told her. "There are other kinds of light after all."  
  
He went to his apartment and returned with a lighted candle. He set it on the table between them and the dancing flame warmed and softened the room. The elderly lady gave him an amused, suspicious look.  
  
His communicator sounded.  
  
  
  
"Kuryakin."  
  
"I know. Marcie and Mimi? Did you say Mimi? Why did you say Mimi?"  
  
"Mimi Vandenburg." Illya answered, puzzled. "Your other date for this evening."  
  
"I don't have a date with Mimi Vandenburg. Do I have a date with Mimi Vandenburg?"  
  
"You did have a date with Mimi Vandenburg."  
  
"When did I have?"  
  
"Just before we left on that last mission. You were at her apartment and I had to call you away because THRUSH was trying to take over the world again. You promised her you'd make it up to her on Valentine's Day. Napoleon, are you trying to tell me you made dates with three women all on the same night?"  
  
"Uh huh," Solo moaned.  
  
Kuryakin leaned against the wall, his legs crossed and his arms folded over his muscular chest as he contemplated his communicator with interest.  
  
"What are you going to do?" he asked curiously.  
  
"Well," Solo said, "right now I'm at the Top of the World Club – by myself, thank you very much – with Marcie Simpson in the Oriental Room and Victoria Rogers in the African Room and I'm trying to divide my time between them without either of them suspecting anything."  
  
"Remarkable. And how, if I may ask, are you explaining your prolonged absences to them?"  
  
"Easily. I'm checking in for any news about my poor, dear partner. You're missing and presumed dead, by the way."  
  
"Must you involve me in your romantic subterfuges?"  
  
"Well, since you wouldn't involve yourself . . ."  
  
There was a brief silence. Kuryakin reviewed the plan of the Top of the World Club in his mind.  
  
"How are you getting from room to room without them seeing you?"  
  
"How, indeed?" Solo said. "This is a very classy restaurant, I'll have you know. Every room has its own courtesy telephone tucked away in a quiet corner with a chair to sit in and a window to look out and a nice screen of big, green plants to keep things private."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And, the telephone in the Oriental Room and the telephone in the African Room just happen to be on opposite sides of the same wall."  
  
"You mean you cut a hole in the wall?"  
  
"Of course not! Don't be ridiculous."  
  
"Then how . . .?"  
  
"You know the ledge between the two windows?"  
  
"Napoleon! You're not?"  
  
Solo looked down between his dangling feet at the lights of cars passing far below.  
  
"All's fair in love and war, my friend."  
  
"Good Lord! Don't fall."  
  
Napoleon smiled at his friend's alarm. "When have I ever fallen off of a skyscraper?"  
  
"Mmm. Well, it's not the sort of thing you get a second chance at."  
  
"Point taken. Solo out."  
  
  
  
Solo edged across the ledge and let himself in the window wondering, if it should come up, how he was going to explain two missing buttons. The windows had been locked at first. He rearranged his expression to reflect deep concern and the need for comforting and circled the wall of foliage in the Oriental Room.  
  
Marcie was gone.  
  
Sarah, the tiny cocktail waitress who had been included in the conspiracy, stood by the empty table chewing worriedly on her lower lip.  
  
"Sarah, where is she?" Napoleon asked.  
  
The young woman peered up at him out of deep blue eyes. She had a tousled mop of red curls and freckles still visible under her makeup. "Oh, Mr. Solo, she had to go to the ladies' room."  
  
"Oh," he relaxed, "that's not so bad. I wish I'd known, I'd have stayed with Miss Rogers longer."  
  
Sarah looked miserable. "She had to go to the ladies' room too."  
  
"Not the same ladies' room?"  
  
"We only have one."  
  
"Oh . . ."  
  
The waitress, looking over his shoulder, paled and chose the better part of valor. Napoleon turned bravely to meet the onslaught. Coming towards him, arm in arm, were two lovely and very angry young women.  
  
"Ladies, please, I can explain," he said.  
  
"Victoria," Marcie said, ignoring him, "I don't think I care for this restaurant. It has a rat problem."  
  
"Yes, Marcie. One very large rat in particular. Why don't we go somewhere more pleasant?"  
  
"What a good idea! There's a nice little bar in the basement, isn't there. We can have a nice, long talk about rodents."  
  
Scowling at Solo, the two women turned and marched away. Just before they disappeared Victoria turned to finally address Solo.  
  
"Oh, Napoleon, good news! It seems they've found Mr. Kuryakin. At home. Asleep."  
  
  
  
It was the work of but a few minutes to get the grill off the air vent near the ceiling in his living room. Illya was very familiar with the ventilation system in his apartment – he checked it regularly for bugs and bombs. Carefully, he maneuvered his small, portable record player into the opening and ran an extension cord to the nearest outlet.  
  
His communicator sounded and he answered it absently, still shuffling through his record collection.  
  
"Kuryakin."  
  
"I know. Illya, listen, do you remember what time I agreed to meet Mimi?"  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
He closed the link without elaborating and allowed himself a small grin as the device immediately began calling insistently. He chose a record and put the others away, then went back and opened the channel. Solo's voice was a guttural growl.  
  
"What time did I agree to meet Mimi?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry! You wanted to know?"  
  
"Illya Kuryakin, so help me God, when I get my hands on you . . . "  
  
The Russian laughed. "Okay, calm down. As I recall, you agreed to meet her at a quarter after eight."  
  
In his mind he could see his partner checking his watch.  
  
"Eight twenty-seven. I'm already late. Okay. That's okay. Late I can handle. Thanks, Illya. But I'm still going to kill you, by the way."  
  
He closed the channel. Illya counted slowly to twenty and then called him back.  
  
"Solo."  
  
"I know. Do you remember where you agreed to meet her?"  
  
There was a long, dismayed silence. Illya could hear his partner swallowing his pride.  
  
"No," he said finally, "I don't. Do you? And will you tell me?" he added quickly.  
  
"Of course, Napoleon," Kuryakin said innocently. "You know I'm always happy to oblige. I believe you arranged to meet her at a bar called the Reconnaissance."  
  
"The Reconnaissance?" Solo brightened audibly. "That's wonderful. That's right here in this very building! Down in the . . . in the . . . down . . . oh, no!"  
  
"Napoleon, what's wrong?" Kuryakin demanded with genuine concern.  
  
"She's waiting in the Reconnaissance. Marcie and Victoria went to the Reconnaissance ten minutes ago."  
  
"Oh," Illya thought for a moment. "Maybe she won't see them."  
  
"It's a very small bar."  
  
"Maybe she won't know them."  
  
"They're very well acquainted."  
  
"Maybe she won't talk to them."  
  
"Shut up, Illya, you're not helping anything."  
  
There was a long silence. Finally Solo groaned. "This is all your fault, I hope you know that."  
  
"My fault?" Illya replied, incensed.  
  
"Yes, your fault. I have spent Valentine's Day playing in and out the window. I have rappelled down the side of a skyscraper and I have ridden back up on – not in. mind you, but on – the elevator, and to top it all off I have gotten dumped by no less than three women. And it all could have been avoided if you had just agreed to come meet me."  
  
Illya snorted. "Napoleon, I will protect you from Thrush. I will protect you from the mob and I will even protect you from Mr. Waverly. If someone pulls a knife on you I will take it away from them and if someone shoots at you I will step in front of the gun. But your women, my friend, are you own problem!"  
  
Napoleon sighed. "You know what your problem is, Tovarich? You have no romance in your soul."  
  
Illya chuckled softly. "You're right Napoleon. You're perfectly correct. There is absolutely no romance whatsoever in my soul."  
  
Solo made a miffed-sounding noise. "Good night, Illya," he said very distinctly.  
  
"Good night, Napoleon," Illya replied. "Happy Valentine's Day."  
  
  
  
  
  
Solo growled to himself and put away his transceiver. Waiting for the elevator, he was surprised by an amused voice at his elbow.  
  
"Mr. Solo, did you say three women?"  
  
He looked down and found Sarah, the waitress, standing beside him with her coat over her arm.  
  
"Not my lucky night," he sighed ruefully. He contemplated her with interest. "What sort of plans do you have for tonight."  
  
"Oh, I couldn't make plans. I had to work." She caught his sudden grin and threw it back at him. "Why, am I the consolation prize?"  
  
"Maybe you were the real prize all along," he suggested slyly.  
  
She burst into laughter. Oh, well, he thought to himself . . .  
  
"So," she asked, "where are you going to take me?"  
  
He slanted a glance down at her and found a challenging light in her eyes. I've exchanged sophistication for mischief, he thought. Not a bad trade at that . . .  
  
"Anywhere but the Reconnaissance," he said.  
  
Sarah laughed. "You just have no sense of adventure."  
  
"Yes, you're right. I've always known my unwillingness to take risks would be my downfall."  
  
He escorted her across the lobby and through the revolving doors. Outside, snow had begun to fall heavily. Big, fat flakes swirled and pirouetted in the puddles of lamplight and took on the myriad fantastic hues of the neon signs. Napoleon Solo offered Sarah his arm and side by side they disappeared into the fearie night.  
  
  
  
  
  
Illya laughed softly to himself as Solo broke the connection. Then he put away his communicator and returned to the open vent. He put the record on and started the machine. The soft sounds of "Sentimental Journey" filled the room and drifted down the air duct to Sonjia's apartment.  
  
The young Russian crossed to the window and peered out from behind the curtain, as cautious as if he expected a sniper's bullet. The polished surface of the dark office building next door mirrored the Minoan. It was easy to pick out a single window illuminated by candlelight and the shadowy outlines of two gray heads bent close together.  
  
The man who had no romance in his soul smiled to himself and closed the curtain. Finally, he went to bed and slept the deep, dreamless sleep of the just and innocent.  
  
  
  
THE END 


End file.
